by Eden Bradley
She hadn’t known it would be like this, look like this. The scent of sex and man filled the room, invaded her senses, until she was sure she could actually feel the arousal surround her, could reach out and touch it in the air. It was intoxicating, more so than the tequila she’d drunk with him last night. Every time she was with him, it grew even more so.
“Spread your legs wider,” she instructed softly and he did it, though he seemed to be barely listening, on another plane, where only his pleasure existed.
It was exactly what she’d wanted. He even reached down with his free hand, began to fondle his own balls, as she watched, mouth open.
He finally picked his head up off the pillow to stare at her, his light green eyes darker than she’d ever seen them, like this was bringing out some kind of wildness inside him, stripping him down to another layer of raw, animal lust.
She gave up on the drawing, studied him instead, the textures, the way the light played off his skin, emphasizing the golden-hued, rich tones. One knee was bent up and lazily falling to the side, the other straight and relaxed; his whole body was relaxed and tense at the same time, and she watched the hard muscles of his abs contract with each stroke of his cock.
“Catie, bebe, you want me to come like this?” he asked, his drawl thick like hot syrup, and no, she didn’t want that—she wanted to taste him, the way she hadn’t been able to the other morning when Bat was so intent on her orgasm.
She moved quickly, was between his legs in seconds, her mouth covering the head of his penis, her fingers digging into his hips as though she could control his movements. But he was beyond reason now, rocking into her mouth as she swirled her tongue around and then took him in as deeply as she could.
He was trying to hold out—his hands twisting in her hair, which had fallen loose around his thighs—but he couldn’t. He came, a salty, warm mixture that tasted just the way she thought it would. And after she milked him, held him in her mouth while his hips stopped moving, she realized he was still hard.
She climbed onto him without thinking, moving from pure instinct and lust, sheathing him inside her. She vaguely heard him mention a condom, but she was too far gone to care.
Her sex made greedy, sucking noises as she put her palms flat to his chest in order to give herself the leverage to take him, hard and fast, using short movements at first. Gradually, she deepened her own thrusts and pushed back so his cock hit her clit at just the right angle, his shaft so deeply inside her womb, it ached.
He watched her, his hands lightly on her hips, his mouth wet. Both their bodies were slicked with sweat and she was out of control, wild, the way he’d been.
He looked at her as if he loved it—as if, maybe, he could actually love her. Whether or not it was a trick of light didn’t matter now. Here, on top of him, anything was possible, even Bat loving her.
The tightening spiral of her orgasm started in her belly, spread outward like a fever until she was clamping down on him, feeling him spill inside of her as she collapsed on his chest.
His strong arms wrapped around her within seconds, and he was murmuring sweet things in her ear, all the things she needed to hear from him, wanted to hear.
Bat was in the storeroom later that night, hauling out the final boxes, when he heard the knocking at the main door of the closed bar.
His body still felt loose, even now, after he and Catie had finally uncurled from each other, and he couldn’t keep the stupid smile off his face.
One look toward the front of the bar helped with that immediately.
Terrell Johnson was at the front door of the bar. Catie stood in the doorway, arms crossed as if she could block him from entering.
“I’d like to speak with Bat,” he said.
“It’s all right, Catie.” Bat was already behind her, urging her to move aside so Terrell could enter. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
“Evening, Bat.” Terrell strolled inside, put a hand on the refinished bar and ran it over the smooth wood. “Things are looking good around here.”
“I know you didn’t come here to talk about the Bon Temps.” Bat’s gut tightened, the way it always had before his father started an argument with his ma, the way it had gotten when his Marine unit was called into combat, the way it got when he’d first seen Catie Jane—the element of fear combined with adrenaline, mixing until he wasn’t sure which end was up. “I’m listening.”
“Your name’s been cleared in the murder of Darren White.”
“You sound less than happy, Terrell.”
The man ignored him, and Bat knew how much this grated on the police officer who’d once run as wild as Bat himself had. “Seems Darren owed a lot of money to a guy named Billy Thompson. Thompson was in the bar that night, heard the threats, did a little investigating on you and found the perfect scapegoat.”
Bat’s first thought, beyond the relief of being cleared, was how much work there still was to do around the Bon Temps. Drug dealers and loan sharks were nothing new around bars, but this place was overrun, and they could be worse than the outright brawlers. They worked from a place of intimidation and they were often harder to weed out of an environment.
Catie couldn’t afford to be here for that long; he couldn’t afford to be with her for that long. Because once that happened, he had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to be able to let her go.
“Bat, didn’t you hear what Terrell said? That’s great news.” Catie tugged at his arm and smiled up at him, and yeah, it was great news.
Great.
He would make it great news for her, however that had to happen.
CHAPTER
Nine
Three days had passed since Bat’s name had been cleared: the Bon Temps was back to business as usual and Bat came up to bed at the end of the night looking worse than ever—the fights had seemed to escalate, and even though he’d assured her that this was normal, she still worried.
But since that evening when he’d lain alone in the bed, stroking himself for both her pleasure and her art, in a session that turned molten and caused her to blush every time she thought about it or worked on the picture, he hadn’t waited in bed in the morning.
She’d been painting from memory, from the sketches, had even branched out from just drawing Bat and also worked from the pictures she’d found in her uncle’s personal effects.
It still bothered her that Bat was no longer willing to pretend to sleep in the mornings, to pose for her in the early sunlight that came through the shades.
She had to talk to him. About everything. About the fact that her feelings were something she’d always been able to control…until now.
He was sitting in the office, going over the books. He did things like that effortlessly. It took her all day to reconcile the columns and handle payroll; he handled everything with ease, including her.
He looked up when she walked in. “Hey, I’ve got some news.”
“What’s that?” For some reason, her heart thudded in what felt like an irregular pattern, and a strange sense of foreboding washed over her.
“It looks like you’ll be getting out of here sooner than you think, and on your way to art school—once you agree to this offer,” he said.
“I don’t understand—” Before she finished her sentence, he handed her an envelope. She opened it and looked at the check inside, a check that she could only assume was for a bid on the Bon Temps. “That’s more than I thought it would go for. But I haven’t even put this place on the market yet. How would anyone know?”
“This guy approached Keith about the sale, and Keith pointed him in my direction. Figured you wouldn’t mind. So, if you say yes and get in touch with the lawyer for the estate, we can start the transfer of the sale papers.”
She nodded, still clutching the paper. “I was just thinking…Well, everything’s not running smoothly…You said yourself it’s going to take a while.”
“New owner wants to keep me on. So I’ll be staying until the job’s done.�
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“So the new owner wants the Bon Temps restored.”
“Yes, he does.”
“I still have to pay you.”
He was shaking his head. “No, you don’t. It’s all right, Catie chere. Take the offer and you can move on, back to art school. You can do what you need to do.”
Her stomach clenched, when really she should’ve been ecstatic. “Bat, I think…I think I want to stay.” The words came out more softly than she intended, and she almost couldn’t look him in the eye.
His response was quick. And not what she was hoping for. “You’re scared, Catie chere. But you need to leave this place and do what you originally planned. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.”
Wouldn’t she? Hadn’t she already forgiven herself, and maybe her family too?
She faced him, prepared to push harder, to fight, although she wasn’t sure exactly what she was fighting for. She’d never thought she’d be one of those women to fall this hard, this fast. She wanted to blame it on the stress of the situation, but she couldn’t dismiss her feelings that easily. “It’s just that…I’m feeling things, Bat. Things I didn’t expect to feel. For you. For us.”
A look crossed his face, one she couldn’t quite place. “I think it’s just the heat.” He pointed to the check in her hands. “Call the lawyer.”
She pushed back the anger that threatened like the hot, fat tears she wasn’t going to be able to hide. She headed up the stairs, but Bat was quicker, caught her arm as she was halfway up.
She refused to turn completely, even though the stairway was well shadowed.
“Catie, wait.”
“For what?” She hated the pain in her voice, hated the fact that she’d let herself get pulled in over her head. The need refueled itself daily—every time she looked at him or he touched her or spoke, every time she pictured herself straddling his lap on one of the bar stools, running her fingers through his hair while he played with her breasts and whispered, Just let go, chere, and Don’t forget to call my name, I love it when you yell my name when you come.
“Please, Catie. Wait.”
She closed her eyes; the tears leaked out anyway. The only thing she could stop was the sob—she swallowed hard and it was gone. “Leave me alone, Bat. You’re getting just what you wanted.”
“You have no idea what I want. Turn around and look at me.”
“I don’t have to follow your orders.” She jerked her arm out of his grasp, and he let her, even walked down a few steps to put distance between them.
He stood in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving. She could’ve sworn his Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow of his own. But maybe, just maybe, like everything else, it was simply a trick of light.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks impatiently.
“I thought the sale was what you wanted. I thought it would make you happy. Why are you crying?”
She shook her head, not willing to tell him now that she’d never expected to feel like this, and she hated herself for wanting more, for not letting what Bat was offering be enough.
“I made you a promise, Catie, and that was to turn this bar around,” he said, his drawl softer than normal.
“Right, I forgot—no other promises. No commitments. No strings. Freedom of the open road.” Her chest actually hurt from holding back. “But you make me feel things. Things I didn’t want or expect to feel. You gave me back my art. You’ve given me back me.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I thought so. But it’s not enough.”
“I’ve known you for less than a week.”
“And you already know that things can never go further than this?” she asked. “Because I don’t know that. No, more, I don’t believe that. I know there have been a lot of other women in your past. But I also don’t see any of them here with you. You don’t talk about them.”
“No, you’re right, I don’t.”
“Would you talk about me, Bat? Think about me after you’ve left this place? Will I linger in your memories when you’re riding your Harley to the next job, and the next? Will you think about me when you’ve got another woman lying in your arms?”
“Yeah, I think I will, Catie chere. I think I’ll never be able to forget you.”
His answer made her throat tighten, her belly ache. “But you’re going to try.”
“But I’m going to try,” he agreed. “You’ve got a big future ahead of you. You’ve got dreams to fulfill.”
“What about you? What about your dreams?”
“You’ve got to stop worrying about my dreams. You’ve got to stop looking back, and keep moving forward. You can always come back, Bayou Rouge will always be here, but your other opportunities may not be.”
“You won’t be,” she whispered, and he didn’t correct her.
“Hey, Bat, we’re ready to open the doors!” Jase’s voice floated over from the front door. She’d completely lost track of the time, the way she’d tended to the past week. She’d forgotten other people were here besides her and Bat. Forgot about the real world and responsibilities.
“I’ve got to go. For now. I’ll see you at the end of the night, if you still want that,” he said.
Yes, she still wanted that, couldn’t stop wanting that.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” she told him, then turned and walked up the stairs. She went into the loft and locked the door, stared down at the check she still held in her hands and wished she had the will to rip it up.
Even if you stay, Bat’s eventually going to leave.
When she studied the sketches she’d made every morning without fail, she noticed the progression. He was opening up to her, little by little. She noted it in the way his face wasn’t stark black on white, but rather shades of gray, thanks to the smudged charcoal. He was telling her things despite himself.
Maybe telling her the only way he could.
Catie had left her sketchbook in the office. She must’ve come down unnoticed during the height of the craziness in the bar, and had left it on the desk.
He’d forced himself to page through it, barely recognized himself on the stark, white pages, his body sprawled in various stages of sleep. She’d captured the newer bumps and bruises, care of the Bon Temps, and the old scars that he could categorize by date, year and weapon.
He looked peaceful, even though they didn’t spend much time sleeping. But the hours he did spend in REM were the best he’d known.
She’d captured him content.
There were other pictures too, him in various stages of get-the-fuck-out mode over the past few nights during the Bon Temps cleanup. She’d been sneaking into the bar, when she’d promised him she wouldn’t.
Yeah, there were things she knew, but there was one thing she didn’t—and couldn’t—know. He had a promise to keep; he had to let Catie do what she needed to do.
It was after two in the morning before he walked up the stairs and quietly opened the door. Catie was still awake—wide awake, and working on her art.
“Hey, do you feel like taking a ride?” he asked her.
She looked up from her canvas, and she smiled, the smile that could easily break his heart, and she nodded.
There was no mention of what had transpired that afternoon, as if she’d accepted that she was leaving. Just like he’d wanted.
And once they were on the bike and he pushed faster, harder along the old roads that surrounded the bayou swamps, he could forget how big the ache really was.
He pulled off the road, slightly into the swamplands, where they’d be hidden from any passing cars. When he cut the engine and put the kickstand down, he shifted his weight and got off the bike. She eased one leg around so she sat facing him. Waiting.
Yeah, the next move was up to him.
“I want you to know—need you to know—there’s never been anyone special for me, Catie. Never.”
“For me either. Until now.” She held a hand over his heart, the flat of
her palm warm against his chest, like it could burn a hole through his T-shirt.
“Don’t. Please. You have to go, Catie. If this week has meant anything at all to you, you have to leave this place. I don’t want to be the one who holds you back from anything.” He didn’t wait for an answer, kissed her, his tongue sweeping her mouth. She responded in kind, her mouth hot and wet, ready for him, even as she yanked his shirt up in a frantic motion.
He pulled back and let her pull it off him, though she wouldn’t risk taking hers off here. Instead, he slid a hand under her shirt and caressed her breasts, loving the way her body arced toward him as she responded to his touch.
He tugged her shorts down, eased her back against the seat, making sure to keep his hands on the bike and her.
She gripped his biceps to keep her balance, and he lost all sense of his, vaguely aware that his feet were still somehow on the ground. He’d unzipped his jeans, readied a condom and rolled it on himself, quickly.
He took her in a single stroke. Her legs spread around him, ankles locked around his waist. Her moans echoed in the still air, mingled with the sounds of life on the bayou, and he breathed her in.
The bike began to shake as he took her, an urgency building, the way it had all week.
Steam rose off their bodies at the effort—fast and furious. When Catie let go first, her orgasm tightened around him, sending him to spiral down after her in a rush of blinding pleasure in her wet heat.
Later, lying in bed, Catie wrapped around him still, her hand caressing his chest, he felt both content and restless.
He’d taken them for a long ride on the bike after they’d recovered and gotten dressed, just her body clinging to his, the heavy vibrations between his legs drowning out any thoughts.
She hadn’t mentioned anything at all—not yet. But when she sighed and turned her face to look at him, his gut tightened.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“When I first got here, I felt trapped. I was trapped. And now…”